


Living Not Alive

by the_chaotic_lesbian



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Gen, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Will Byers Deserves Love, Will Byers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 04:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21488194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_lesbian/pseuds/the_chaotic_lesbian
Summary: A series of drabbles, vaguely connected, all about the inner turmoil of Will Byers.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Living Not Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Betcha didn't think you'd see me again so soon! I wrote these mid-anxiety attack, completely unfiltered, and I'm only publishing them because a friend of mine said so. In any case, enjoy?

He’s running. His face is hot, vision blurry, he can’t see where he’s going but that doesn’t matter because he’s not running to get somewhere but rather running to get away. He’s shaking, almost to the point where he can hardly remain on his feet, and yet he does. He loses track of the time, running and running until finally the shakiness overtakes him. He collapses then, sinking to his knees. Arms curl around himself in the mockery of an embrace as he rocks in place, trembling. God, he’s so pathetic. So stupid. So, so stupid. All he wants to do is make his loved ones happy. He just wants the people he cares about to be happy. So why does his heart have to be broken in the process? For a moment, just one, he wishes they had forgotten him in the Upside Down, because at least then he wouldn’t be breaking on the inside every single day, and everybody would still be happy. Nobody needs him to be happy, he’s just… just a waste of space. What was the point of saving him? He should’ve just died in the Upside Down. At least the Mind Flayer had wanted him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s easy to forget his own trauma, in the midst of everybody else’s. Granted, one would think he has the most to be upset over -  _ he’s  _ the one that went missing,  _ he’s  _ the one that got possessed… (he was the one rejected and cast aside and ignored by the people who once fought so hard to save him.) Yet, as the events of the summer settle in, he can’t bring himself to remind everyone that wow, he just faced the very real, very monstrous creature that had, at one point, known him better than anybody else had. The creature that had consumed his mind and snatched his body and whispered his insecurities to him when nobody else could hear. He had thought he’d never be able to recover, and then when they fought it off, he thought he’d finally start the process. After all, it doesn’t matter that he’s still waking up every night, shaking from nightmares, unable to stomach anything, unable to do anything but pull blankets over his head and cry. That doesn’t matter, not when Eleven just lost the first real parental figure she had, not when Max had lost a brother she had only just gotten, not when everybody couldn’t shake the image of the Mind Flayer in all its ugly beauty. After all, it isn’t that monster that’s stuck in his head. He doesn’t see the larger than life creature when he closes his eyes. All he sees are shadows. Maybe that’s fitting, that even now, even when everybody else is starting to move on, he’s still stuck in the past. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes he feels like he’s drowning. Sinking deeper and deeper - in what, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know - with each passing day. Every time he walks through the halls, feeling the gazes of hundreds of people all judging him, thoughts so loud he can hear them echoing in his head even now. He knows what they’re saying, what they’re thinking. He’s… he’s thinking those things himself, if he’s being honest. And god, if that doesn’t make him feel like the worst person on the planet, because he’s surrounded by people who love him, he knows they love him. His mother, who once willingly threw herself in Hell to rescue him, who reminds him every day how much she adores him. His brother, who protected him for years, who plugged his ears so he didn’t have to hear the insults thrown his way, who still tries his best to protect him. His friends: Mike, who approached him in kindergarten with a smile on his lips, who kept him afloat through years of verbal abuse and doubts, Lucas, who can be brittle and fiery with others but has always been kind and gentle with him, who always indulged him in things even if he had other plans for the day, Dustin, with his infectious enthusiasm, words equally as brittle as Lucas but always in defense. He knows they love him, and yet, still, he’s drowning. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s running again. It’s all he’s good for nowadays, he thinks. Running. All he’s ever been good for, really. He’s not a fighter. He’s not Lucas, with his amazing aim and bravery. He’s not Mike, who is the clumsiest, least athletic person in the world but still manages to have the courage to stand up and fight when need be. He’s not Dustin, coming up with plans on the spot, having the wits and strength to act them out. When push comes to shove, all three of them have the nerve to stand up and fight against anything that gets in their way. But him? He doesn’t. He’d choose flight over anything else, because that’s what he’s best at. Running, hiding. He’s a coward, but nobody says that to his face because he’s alive thanks to it. And isn’t that just… awful? He’s only alive because he knows how to be a coward. He knows this, and he knows he needs to stop being so pathetic, but even now he can’t bring himself to actually quit. After all, the benefits of being good at running is at least he’s good for something. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps there is something else he’s good at - acting. It’s so funny to think about, because Mike is the actor of the group, and yet… well. He hides behind his small smiles, behind his sketchbook that he hardly uses anymore, behind the poems he scribbles on napkins and stuffs in his pockets before anyone can read them. Somehow, he’s kept up the image that he’s an actual, whole person, not shards and fragments pieced together with the weakest of glue, always in danger of falling apart. Some days are better than others, but in the end he always reapplies the glue, with a shaky hand, in the dark of the night when nobody can see him shatter. He keeps his edges clean, hidden, and nobody ever questions it. He’s Frankenstein’s monster, the barest minimum of human, sewn together by an uncaring hand, alone and unwanted and cast aside. And… okay, maybe, just maybe he’s being unfair to himself in saying such, but on the days when he feels at most danger of shattering into pieces, he can’t help the thoughts.


End file.
